


The Game

by BananaCandy



Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Although it's worth mentioning that I REGRET NOTHING, Bit of an age difference (about four million years xD), Champagne in a French landmark, Eiffel Tower, Fluff and Angst, General woe with attached joy, Gratuitous overuse of the French language, Humor, I Will Go Down With This Ship, It really IS immense fun writing all-powerful beings!, M/M, Maybe slightly schmoopy towards the end, My First AO3 Post, Omnipotence, Paris (City), Picard likes tea slightly too much, Picard loves Q (because he's in possession of a brain), Q loves Picard (who doesn't?), Q thinks nothing of wearing Hawaiian shirts in midwinter because he's a BAMF, Romance, That mature rating's probably too cautious, The tagging system on here is frankly spectacular
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-09
Updated: 2013-09-09
Packaged: 2017-12-26 03:47:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/961217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BananaCandy/pseuds/BananaCandy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"But sometimes, <i>mon dieu<i>, all a man wants is a glorified sandwich and a caffeine boost in the snow, in the most beautiful city in all of creation, with good company, a warm overcoat and a classy soundtrack that his ears are biologically configured to understand; sometimes, humans simply need to <i>be<i>."</i></i></i></i></p><p> </p><p>  <i><br/><i><br/><i><br/><i><br/><i><br/><i>A Captain and a God walk into a café, and roll the dice on the games of life, love and immortality.</i><br/></i><br/></i><br/></i><br/></i><br/></i></p><p> </p><p>  <i><br/><i><br/><i><br/><i><br/><i><br/><i>Or, alternatively: 'The One where Picard and Q wind each other up until it all becomes a bit more serious, although it's never quite THAT serious, because that's not how the author rolls.'</i><br/></i><br/></i><br/></i><br/></i><br/></i></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Game

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, lovely people! This is my first post on this wonderful site, and my first published 'Qcard' fic in general, so I hope it's as in-character and perfectly balanced as it seemed when I was writing it! xD
> 
> All the French herein is very basic, and only present due to the fact I'm writing about a Frenchman and a being who enjoys speaking the language of love (and I may as well use my French A Level somewhere in life), but there are a few instances you might be a little lost on. They're the following:
> 
> 'Je pense' - I think  
> 'Sans manteau' - without a coat  
> 'Toujours' - always  
> 'Mon dieu' - my god (as in 'the god is mine', rather than a variant on 'OMFG'. xD)
> 
> And as this tale is also stealing my Next Gen virginity, I'd greatly appreciate any kudos, feedback and concrit you fancy levelling at me; I've been writing for over ten years, but there's always room for improvement! <3

 

 

“All of time, space, dimensional matter; every photon burst of every star ever born or dead; any _where_ , any _moment_ , any _how…_ and you opt for a Parisian café. At lunchtime. In the _winter._ See if I give _you_ the choice of culinary destinations again anytime soon…”

 

Jean-Luc Picard smirked at the exasperated tone of his omnipotent lover, casually glancing into eyes that had seen – and were still watching – the span of eternity.

 

“They do excellent paninis here,” he deadpanned simply.

 

Q gaped, shaking his head in disbelief.

 

“It shows a frankly _atrocious_ lack of imagination _, mon capitaine_.”

 

Picard smiled lightly as he stirred his cappuccino.

 

“I’ve traversed galaxies with you in a heartbeat,” he began, in a voice that quite deliberately suggested nothing more exciting than a trip to a local supermarket. “I’ve watched worlds live and die within half a minute; suns forming, populations thriving on atoms of resources; I’ve made love on clouds, met men who died a billion years ago and danced a particularly elegant waltz with the first female President of a world that won’t form in a thousand of my lifetimes, and I’ve loved every single _second_ , Q – but sometimes, _mon dieu_ , all a man wants is a glorified sandwich and a caffeine boost in the snow, in the most beautiful city in all of creation, with good company, a warm overcoat and a classy soundtrack that his ears are biologically configured to understand; sometimes, humans simply need to _be_.”

 

Q rose an eyebrow from the opposite side of the small table, thoroughly unimpressed.

 

“Quite,” he drawled. “To be _dull_.”

 

Picard chuckled as he added a packet of demerara sugar to his beverage, stirring it through and punctuating his explanation with numerous meaningful glances.

 

“I can’t expect you to empathise, even with your brief experience of my species,” he stated, “but occasionally, Q, humankind needs _time_ – time to reflect on what has passed, enjoy the silence, relive the memories… stop and _smell the roses_ , if you will. I’ve never before had, never _dreamt_ of having, a lover who can sculpt my portrait in stardust; events like that, for our tiny little minds, require some processing.”

 

“You still haven’t,” Q responded dryly, his tone slightly mournful. “It was an _abysmal_ likeness.”

 

The Captain grinned, leaning over to pat the assumed hand of a god.

 

“There there,” he pronounced solemnly, face perfectly stoic. “It’s the thought that counts.”

 

“ _Is_ it, though?” Q burst out, infuriated. “How can I reshape galaxies, write sonnets in constellations, weave my thoughts through the very fabric of reality, yet still be so woefully inadequate at portraiture?!”

 

Picard considered it for a beat and a sip, then shrugged.

 

“No one can be perfect in every respect – not even _you_.”

 

Q snorted loudly, and a wicked thunderbolt decimated a distant moon.

 

“ _Please_ ,” he sneered furiously, “I’m a _deity_ , Jean-Luc! An ageless, timeless, homeless god! I am _flawless_ in every possible aspect!”

 

“Except portraiture,” said the Frenchman, not missing a beat.

 

Q glared daggers at his grin. In the Delta Quadrant, eighty-one thousand light years away from the universe’s most delicious paninis, a star system imploded solely from the force of that look.

 

“You ought to be glad I’m fond of you, _mon cherie_ ,” Q replied coolly. “ _Truly_ glad…”

 

“I thank my lucky stars daily,” the amused Picard acknowledged airily. “Anyway, there are several other points that would suggest your fallibility, whilst we’re on the subject…”

 

Q growled sullenly, seriously tempted to click his fingers and leave his teasing bastard of a lover naked in the frigid temperatures of the French capital.

 

“Oh, _do_ enlighten me,” Q requested acidly. Picard merely smirked, nonplussed at his petulance.

 

“Firstly, you can’t blend in to save your own omnipotence,” he observed, glancing at the god’s curious attire. “ _No one_ , my love, in the entire scope of the cosmos, believes that Hawaiian shirts are seasonally appropriate for January.”

 

“ _Please_ ,” Q repeated frostily. “I’ve made snow angels in swim shorts at zero Kelvin, and not so much as _shivered_ – I have no _concept_ of cold.”

 

“Precisely,” Picard countered. “You can’t mingle. Mingling means wearing – ”

 

“ _I’ve written eighty-six dictionaries!_ ” Q snapped. “I _know_ what mingling means, man!”

 

Picard blinked, somehow astonished.

 

“Have you really?”

 

“That’s not actually terribly impressive for someone who has lived for four billion years,” Q stated drolly, although his gaze shone with a faint pride for his lover’s awe. “Next _critique_ , dearest?”

 

Picard grinned at their little game.

 

“You can’t appreciate quietude.”

 

Q quirked a brow in disbelief.

 

“Yes, my love – _you_ try relishing the inaudible when forever is your playground, and your knowledge spans eternity; sentient life, _mon capitaine_ , never _shuts up_. Go on…”

 

“You don’t like the colour of my uniform.”

 

“ _Preposterous_ ,” Q argued, peeved. “I’ve seen shades, hues, that your _pathetic_ brain would collapse trying to discern, and I’ve never held a preference or an abhorrence for any single one; I merely dislike it on _you_. It frankly does nothing for your complexion.”

 

The Captain gave an incredulous laugh.

 

“Well, _that_ we can agree on,” he adhered mildly. “It really does make me look alarmingly pale.”

 

“Quite so, dear. Anything _else_ defective about me?”

 

“Several things.” The Captain’s teasing lilt did nothing to alleviate either his lover’s irritation, or the resultant nova of a far star.

 

“Oh, please – _do_ elaborate.” The sarcasm was palpable.

 

“You don’t like parks.”

 

“Because they’re _tedious!_ Grass, grass, _grass_ , tree, woodland, fence, flock of biologically diverse sheep –” Picard snorted with laughter “- more infernal _grass_ , novelty arrangements of flagstones, damnable _grass_ and perhaps the occasional ornamental koi carp pond – yes, _mon capitaine_ , I _will_ wait whilst the excitement of the universal populace builds to an irrepressible fever pitch. I walk in eternity, smash stars into atoms for fun; do you honestly expect me to appreciate _parks?!”_

“Wouldn’t hurt for you to try,” Picard responded, chuckling heartily. “You hate films, too.”

 

“Hello, perhaps we haven’t met – I’m Q, and I’m _omniscient_ ,” the god pointed out dryly, offering up a sardonic wave in greeting. “Curiously enough, that ‘all-seeing’ thing also extends to cinematic releases. Are you _quite_ done? Because you’re hardly faultless, and seeing how today seems to be all about letting off steam, there are a few things _I_ wouldn’t mind passing comment upon…”

 

Picard grinned amiably, swiping a gentle finger across his lover’s palm in reassurance.

 

“Take your best shot, dear,” he invited indulgently, “although I’m not the one _claiming_ to be flawless.”

 

Q scowled openly.

 

“You are _this_ close to ending up _sans manteau_ in the last Ice Age,” he grouched, holding his forefinger and thumb a mere millimetre apart, and Picard chuckled.

 

“You wouldn’t.” Confident. Brazen, even. Amused.

 

“Oh, I _really_ would.” Cool. Stated. Wholeheartedly untrue.

 

“Proceed,” the Francophone responded, grinning.

 

Q clicked once more, and an absurdly lengthy scroll materialised from thin air, trailing across four of the neighbouring tables in the thankfully deserted café. Picard laughed incredulously, partly from the sheer mass of paper, but mostly due to the entirely unnecessary, professor-like specs that now sat on the bridge of his lover’s nose, and the cream linen suit he now sported.

 

“Shall I just elucidate the _most_ irritating?” The god asked dryly.

 

“Why not?” Conceded the Frenchman, still laughing.

 

“ _Excellente_ ,” Q quipped, smirking. “We’ll go in descending order, _je pense_ … in at five: your frankly bizarre love of Classical music.”

 

Picard shrugged, quirking an eyebrow for good measure.

 

“What’s wrong with Classical music?”

 

“What’s _right_ with Classical music, Jean-Luc?” Q asked with displeased rhetoric. “It’s bland, insipid, joyless and every single singer of it grates on the nerves I don’t actually possess, but will assume for the purposes of this anecdote.”

 

The Captain sighed, begrudgingly amused.

 

“Well, it wouldn’t do for us all to be the same…”

 

“ _Quatre:_ You have an unhealthy obsession with tea, to the point that it’s all I’ve ever seen you drink.”

 

Picard pointedly cleared his throat and raised his now-frozen cappuccino to eye height for emphasis; Q rolled his eyes.

 

“You know damned well that you only ordered that because I’d transform your Earl Grey.”

 

“I don’t entirely detest coffee,” came the weak protest.

 

“Well, quite,” the deity riposted condescendingly, “which is why you haven’t taken more than a few polite sips in the entire hour we’ve been here.”

 

“Maybe I’m just not thirsty.”

 

“If you weren’t, you wouldn’t have drunk _any_ of it.” A dramatic sigh, and a brief hint of a smile. “Here, have your accursed _tea_.”

 

Piping hot Earl Grey replaced Italian coffee with a flash and a finger-snap, and Picard beamed.

 

“You are _wonderful_ ,” he praised, inhaling the aroma with a contented sigh. Q merely smirked.

 

“Oh, I know. _Bonne chance_ with your deflections, too.”

 

A smile sliced through the café between them for a moment, the very atoms of the air seeming to spark with the faintest burst of electricity.

 

“We have a new entry at three, _mon capitaine_ ; your mischievous streak.”

 

Picard blew on the surface of his tea in a futile attempt at cooling it slightly, steam shooting outwards; exasperated, Q shot it upwards instead with a glance, forming words through the chemical response. The small sentence lasted only a breath, but the Captain noted it with mirth through his analytical gaze.

 

DO YOU QUITE MIND?

 

“Not especially,” was the simple reply, “and I can cite numerous instances, _mon dieu_ , wherein my mischievous streak has served us both very well indeed.”

 

“As could I, Jean-Luc,” Q drawled slyly, giving a suggestive wink, “but today, you seem to be putting it to far less… _constructive_ use.”

 

“I’ll endeavour to make it up to you later,” Picard assured smoothly, turning up the internal dial of his customary French charm.

 

“Oh, I _do_ hope so, _mon capitaine_ …”

 

The god’s practically devilish tone dripped honey down the length of his human lover’s spine, and Picard shivered, his throat suddenly drier than the Atacama at midday; he took a particularly long draught of his tea, and pointedly cleared his throat. Q grinned in delight.

 

“What’s number two?”

 

A light blush painted his cheeks, and the deity damn near _giggled._

“Riker,” he simply stated. “Everything about the man.”

 

For the first time that afternoon (although far from the first time in their overall acquaintance), Picard looked irritated.

 

“Rule one, Q.” The Captain’s voice bordered on cold, but Q couldn’t quite muster the relevant grace to appear chided.

 

“Yes yes, no berating your _precious_ crew,” he breezed dismissively. “Anyway, it all pales in comparision to the gold medal spot, dearest…”

 

“What’s that, then?” Questioned Picard with a slight smile, somewhat mollified at his lover’s unusual resistance to insulting his extended family. Q inhaled deeply before speaking, apparently for courage, and his tone wore bitter gentility.

 

“The worst thing about you, Jean-Luc Picard? The most awful, horrific, gutwrenching, dreadful flaw you possess?”

 

Vapour rose, bidden by a god, from the remainder of his partner’s tea, and once more formed words, their meaning slamming into the Captain’s very soul with anguish. They read, simply:

 

YOU ARE MINE – AND YOU ARE FINITE

 

Just like that, as easily as the omnipotent being conjured caffeine and danced through all of reality, their game was over, the pretence shredded, the joviality abandoned in favour of the stark, devastating breed of honesty Q had employed – and Jean-Luc Picard, leader of the flagship, diplomat of galaxies and lover of a god, was rendered completely speechless.

 

“Too much?” Q questioned nervously, watching the human stare in heartbroken disbelief at the still-stagnant words and swallowing heavily. “Too much, indeed. I’ll just wipe your mem –”

 

“ _Don’t you dare_.”

 

Picard’s quiet, sharp words were every inch an order; Q blinked, astonished.

 

“Yes sir.” The idol winced at how unintentionally blasé his response sounded, and Picard shifted too-wide eyes to his lover’s. For the briefest of instances, Q, a creature who surfed solar flares for fun and ripped up tectonic plates to serve as impromptu golf courses was, for the first time in four million years, completely _intimidated._ That gaze spoke of a sorrow that could span eons, and the god internally balked at the idea of his Captain experiencing such pain.

 

“I could,” Q murmured, beginning to babble in his horror. “Give you a dose of amnesia, I mean. If it’s easier for you, in the long – ”

 

“Wouldn’t make it easier for you, would it?” The statement was sharp, and Q smiled slightly, warmed to the core at his lover’s selflessness.

 

“No,” he admitted, “but you’d never even know.”

 

“You underestimate yourself,” Picard replied coolly. “The entirety of the damned _Continuum_ couldn’t make me forget you.”

 

“Oh, I _really_ could,” Q murmured softly, almost apologetically.

 

“I’d remember,” growled the Frenchman fiercely. “However long it took, Q – I would _remember_ , and I would _never_ forgive you.”

 

“I know you would, and I know you _wouldn’t_ ,” whispered the deity honestly – because if anyone could defy the combined wills of gods, it was this man; this extraordinary, breathtaking _homo sapien_ who thought nothing of teasing a being who could rip him apart cell by cell, strip him to molecules and scatter him through a distant extrasolar cyclone – a man who managed to weave through the terrifying depths and darkness of the universe in barely more than a metal casing on a daily basis and actively _enjoy_ it, thinking nothing of blasting headfirst into battles with aliens that could use the _Enterprise_ as target practice, drinking tea with a level of tranquillity that outwardly suggested he was doing nothing more dangerous than choosing between pasta shapes at the local market. Humans had never been meant to fly; Jean-Luc Picard _soared_ , and he did so with such a frightening grace that Q frequently wondered which of them was _truly_ the more powerful.

 

The god sighed softly, taking his partner’s hand; with a click, they were atop the structure that had nanoseconds earlier stood only as a distant monument on the horizon, and Picard blinked with acknowledgment, the shadow of a smile upon his lips.

 

“Never pity a man who can do _this_ ,” Q murmured, casting his arm around their surroundings. “Top of the Eiffel Tower, _mon capitaine_ , three hours after closing time, with the champagne I’m about to summon, a four-poster bed and mysteriously malfunctioning surveillance equipment – come, now. That’s pretty good, am I right? It’s hardly the Crab Nebula by hovercraft, but still – ”

 

“Oh, _do_ shut up,” Picard choked out, half-desperate, grabbing the god’s suit lapels and pulling him into an almost frantic kiss; it was over in seconds, intended not as tenderness but as an affirmation, and the human’s forehead rested against the god’s, oceanic eyes sliding closed with a gentle sigh.

 

“Well, I think if nothing else, that _alone_ deserves vintage Bollinger.”

 

In spite of himself, of the effect his pinprick of a lifespan would have on his lover eventually, and however deep his second-hand despair, the Captain burst out laughing at Q’s lighthearted remark, breathing in the scent of eternity at his jawline to calm his immense sadness.

 

“So _emotional_ , you humans,” Q teased warmly, passing him a champagne flute he’d just plucked from nothingness. “No real physical prowess to speak of, intellectually backwards in the grand scheme of the universe, technologically inept and led almost entirely by a limited sense of ambition to better yourselves that’s stemmed from a primal drive none of you can even remotely recall the origin of; you really are all quite unremarkable, Jean-Luc. Well, _most_ of you, at any rate. Certainly Riker… dear me, did I say that out loud? _Damn_ my vastly superior IQ and its consistent capacity to verbalise the most inappropriate things!”

 

Picard’s larynx tripped out a soft chuckle, suddenly somewhat more willing to let his friend’s honour slide as he pressed a brief, tender kiss to Q’s temple.

 

“You could stop this,” he murmured. “You know you could…”

 

“What, insulting Riker? Honestly, I’ve tried, dear, but I’m afraid it’s impossible.”

 

Picard smiled wryly against the deity’s chest, shaking his head.

 

“Nothing’s impossible for you,” he pointed out mildly.

 

“Nothing except _that_ ,” Q replied, grinning. “Well, that and damnable _portraiture_.”

 

Picard glanced up and drove his gaze directly to the icon’s soul, a note of sincerity shattering the amusement.

 

“You know what I mean,” he said softly, and Q’s expression hardened imperceptibly even as he sagged slightly with the depth of his sigh.

 

“I’d do _anything_ for you, Jean-Luc,” he whispered honestly, “and I’m one of the only beings in the universe who could truly _mean_ that. I’ll give you the universe on a silver platter if you ask for it, transfer a sun you’ve never heard of into a snow globe and transform its planetary neighbours into the confetti within its glass trappings, simply for your amusement; I can take you to the end of reality, weave its fabric into a patchwork quilt, or show you the beginning of it all – by the saints, whichever ones, I’ll give you the damned quill and let you re-write every single word of it all if you desire it – but I will _not_ turn you. You deserve _better_ than my people, I promise you; you deserve a life that is defined by your own parameters, where your crew are your family, however much _I_ dislike them all; you deserve to float through space in your tiny little vessel with your Earl Grey and your inner strength because it’s what you were meant for, and it’s what you _want_. I’ve changed the plotline of your life a little, I’ll admit, but you were always meant for brilliance, and you were always meant to be content with it. If you weren’t, then perhaps I’d think differently – but you are, and I _refuse_ to allow you to give it up for me, you wonderful, beautiful, selfless _fool_.”

 

Picard was barely aware of the tears that dripped asymmetrically down his cheeks, an inaccurate, sensual waterfall, and Q sighed gently, amused.

 

“Idiot,” he murmured affectionately. “Here...”

 

With a click, several tissues appeared in his grasp; Picard snatched them eagerly, already internally berating his weakness; he was not generally a man prone to such blatant emotionalism, one of the duties of his employment being to remain stoic in the face of feeling, but this was a unique circumstance, albeit one that didn’t sit any more easily with his familiar discomfort at being so emotionally exposed.

 

“Thank you,” the Captain murmured warmly, meeting the infinite gaze of his god. “It’s not fair, Q…”

 

“I am reliably informed, _mon capitaine_ , that life isn’t,” answered the being beside him with a wry, pained smile, “and I should know, what with it all whirring through my mind permanently. The idea, I imagine, is to live whilst one can, and leave their legacy upon every star they touch, and _you_ , Jean-Luc Picard, will do just that; I’ll make _sure_ of it.”

 

“I don’t doubt it,” the Frenchman said honestly, inclining his head slightly in reassurance, and casually tossing the used tissues over his shoulder; with a click, they landed in a newly existent waste paper basket, which disappeared almost the moment it had arrived.

 

“There can be _no_ excuse for littering, Jean-Luc.” The mock-stern god winked for good measure, grinning widely at the chuckling human. An azure gaze met that of the universe, and the owner of the former was characteristically frank.

 

“You won’t forget me?”

 

It wasn’t a question, not really, because it didn’t require a response, and Jean-Luc Picard wasn’t a needy, faint-hearted soul desperate for a vow he’d never be able to check was being honoured, but Q made sure to answer anyway, because it’s what the backwards humanoid before him wants, deep down, and he’ll be damned if he’ll lie about it either. He _can’t_ forget, realistically, with the entirety of everything playing a permanent feedback loop in his mind’s eye, but that’s hardly the point here, and they both know it. Memories are transcendent, capable of being summoned by any imbecile with the relevant cognitive function; the feelings, the warmth and the depth and the importance of these fleeting afternoons and moments between them are what the Captain wants to ensure the survival of.

 

“Never.”

 

Q had never meant anything more. Picard rewarded him with a delicious smile and a deep kiss that conveyed everything his species has never evolved words for the joy of, and their fingers laced together in the unspoken delight of experiencing the unification neither of them had ever known.

 

“What say we christen that four-posted _, mon amour?”_ Whispered Q, and the Frenchman beamed.

 

“Well, who am I to _possibly_ argue with a god?”

 

Q laughed, offering his Captain his hand.

 

“An idiot,” he replied simply. “The best idiot that’s ever been.”

 

Throat tinkling with a soft titter, Jean-Luc Picard grinned joyfully and yelped with surprised amusement as Q dragged him forwards and threw him lightly to the sumptuous covers.

 

“Enjoy the show, _mon capitaine_ ,” the deity requested tenderly against impossibly soft lips, which curved into a growl of pleasure as they locked gazes.

 

“ _Toujours_ , _mon dieu…”_

Within the cerebral cortex of a god, the tiny human had already lived, rescued a thousand species from extinction, danced across star systems and breathed his last on a battlefield of a distant moon. Right now, he was holding his soulmate’s hand as he exsanguinated from a hail of ferocious phaser fire in exactly the same moment as he watched him drink vintage wine and laugh with his brother on a French vineyard, and in precisely the same nanosecond he was exploring his remarkably fragile body; time was false, a lie, and all he’d end up as was painfully _alone_ – but he wouldn’t change this moment, whichever one it was, for all the Continuum’s power.

 

The game was over for tonight, but its rules would be inscribed in the heart of every supernova and gravity field ever to exist.

 

Jean-Luc Picard deserved nothing less.

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
